Page 22 of Zylus

I’m in the middle of rewiring a particularly stubborn light fixture when I hear a loud crash from the room next door, followed by a string of colorful curses in a language my translator can’t quite catch.

I debate ignoring it, but my traitorous feet are already carrying me toward the sound. I poke my head in to find Zylus buried up to his waist in a pile of rubble from the caved-in ceiling, a sheepish grin on his dust-covered face.

“Uh, a little help?” He holds out a hand, looking so ridiculous I can’t help but snort.

“Smooth move,” I say, picking my way through the debris to haul him up. “What were you trying to do, demolish the place from the inside out?”

He brushes off his pants, not quite meeting my eyes. “I was just trying to get that old vent cover off. Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence as we both remember we’re not supposed to be talking. I clear my throat, stepping back. “Right. Well. Try not to bring the whole roof down next time, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best.” He hesitates, as though he wants to say something more, but I’m already backing out of the room.

As I turn to leave, Zylus calls out, “Wait, Misty. Since you’re here… I could use your help with something.”

I pause in the doorway, eyeing him suspiciously. “What kind of help?”

He gestures to a pile of wood and tools in the corner. “I need to build a custom shelving unit for this room. Two sets of hands would make it go faster.”

I cross my arms, torn between the desire to help and the urge to maintain our cold war. “And you can’t ask one of your crew because…?”

“Because they’re all working on the plumbing issue downstairs,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, I thought it might be good for you to learn some basic carpentry skills. You know, in case you decide to keep the inn after all.”

The jab doesn’t go unnoticed. I narrow my eyes at him. “Fine. But don’t expect me to chat while we work.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.

For the next hour, we work in tense silence, broken only by Zylus’s occasional instructions. Despite my determination to remain aloof, I find myself fascinated by the process. There’s something oddly satisfying about watching rough pieces of wood transform into a functional piece of furniture.

As I’m sanding one of the shelves, Zylus leans over to inspect my work. His bare chest brushes against my arm, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

“You missed a spot,” he murmurs, his breath warm on my neck.

I jerk away, scowling. “I did not.”

“Did too.” He points to a barely noticeable rough patch. “Right there.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we were aiming for perfection in a house that was falling apart a month ago,” I snap.

Zylus raises an eyebrow. “Touchy, aren’t we? I thought Earthers prided themselves on attention to detail.”

“And I thought Astralites prided themselves onhonesty,” I retort before I can stop myself.

The barb lands, and I see a flicker of hurt in his eyes before he masks it with a cocky grin. “We do. Which is why I’m honestly telling you that your sanding skills need work.”

I grab another piece of sandpaper and attack the shelf with renewed vigor. “There. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he deadpans. “Now, if you’re done mangling that poor, defenseless wood, want to learn how to use the nail gun?”

Despite my irritation, curiosity gets the better of me. “…Maybe.”

“Alright then, come here.” He beckons me over to where he’s positioning two pieces of the shelving unit. “Now, the trick is to keep a firm grip and maintain steady pressure.”

As he demonstrates, I can’t help but notice the way his muscles flex under his green skin. It’s infuriating how attractive he is, even when I’m mad at him.

“Your turn,” he says, holding out the nail gun.

I take it, trying to mimic his stance. “Like this?”

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